Sunday night I had a dream. My sister T and I were headed over to the post office to drop some letters off for my mom. She was driving our family’s van. We chatted about nothing special as we made our way to our destination. It was about 8:45am.
As we pulled up we saw a huge crowd gathered in front of the door. It turns out they didn’t open until nine.
“oh man! this is going to take forever,” tree noted.
“why don’t you jump out and get in line,” I offered “I’ll park the van.”
Theresa hopped out of the drivers seat. I took the car and did a three point turn. Then I went turned left into the parking lot. Despite the large amount of people in front of the post office, the parking lot only had a few cars.
As I pulled into a spot I felt the car thump heavily. I used the auto-mirror on the passenger side to let me see if I’d hit anything.
I had run over and killed a toddler.
I woke up totally horrified wondering why on Earth casual dreams seem to get overly horrific without any warning. Despite waking up, I still felt like I was on Cape Cod. I pulled the warm blankets up over my shoulder and started drifting back to sleep… when I heard a sound from downstairs. “who would be downstairs at this hour?” I pondered.
And just like that, I realized I wasn’t on vacation in Cape Cod. No. I was at home. And it was Monday morning. And in 45 minutes, I’d have to get up and go to work.
What a lousy way to start a week.